A Crisis
by drarryxon
Summary: Why in the bloody hell does Harry Potter keep staring at you? Doesn't he have something better to do?


**Rating: T  
Length: 5572 words  
Summary: Why in the bloody hell does Harry Potter keep staring at you? Doesn't he have something better to do?**

* * *

It's the fourth week back of your eighth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and you're currently sitting at the Slytherin table, peeling an orange with your long, pale fingers, one of which has a serpent-shaped ring on it. Right as you get ready to pick up the first slice of citrus fruit, Blaise Zabini elbows you in the ribs. You turn and wipe orange juice on his face.

"What the hell was that for?" he asks, wiping off his skin with a napkin. You bite into your fruit.

"What the hell did you elbow me for?" you respond, brandishing an orange slice. Blaise watches it carefully, making sure that no stray droplets of juice land on him.

"Potter is watching you," he says. "_Again_." You look across the hall and over to the Gryffindor table, where, sure enough, Saint Potter is watching you, mindlessly stirring a bowl of cereal with his spoon. You finish your orange slice and lick your fingers, and even from this distance, you can see Potter's cheeks flush. Blaise elbows you again.

"Must you eat your food like such a _tart_?" You pick up more orange and frown.

"I do not eat my food like a slag, Blaise," you shoot back, and continue eating your breakfast.

"Draco, it looks like you're giving your orange oral," Blaise finally says, watching you steadily, and you choke. Blaise slaps you on the back, and you manage to swallow the renegade piece of fruit in your trachea.

"Dammit, Blaise, don't say shit like that when I'm eating!" You smack him upside the head. He just chuckles and reaches for a blueberry muffin, which he then begins to dismantle slowly. You watch him for a moment. "Can't you eat food like a normal person?"

"Pot, kettle," Blaise replies. He looks up and rolls his eyes. "Potter is _still_ watching you." You look up and see that, for once, Blaise is actually right. You finish your fruit while watching Potter, and again that blush crosses his cheeks. You raise an eyebrow, and he finally looks away, down into his cereal bowl.

Well, that was odd.

You wipe your hands on a napkin and pick up your shoulder bag, stringing it across your torso. "I'll see you in Transfiguration," you say to Blaise, who is slowly murdering his second muffin. He waves his hand in recognition and you leave the hall and head to the Transfiguration room.

Moments after you enter the classroom, students begin to file in, along with Potter, who shoots another glance your way. You catch him staring, and he hurriedly begins to look inside of his bag for his book and some parchment.

All throughout the lesson, you can feel Potter's eyes on you, and it's beginning to get distracting. You transfigure your book wrong three times, and instead of creating a chair, you create a pile of cushions with a wooden pattern across them. McGonagall glares at you, and you glare back before fixing your mistake. You hear a snigger across the room, and see Weasley chuckling at you. Potter elbows him in the side, and he frowns.

"What was that for?" Weasley asks.

"Just leave him alone, alright?" Harry says, waving his wand. Your eyebrows raise so fast that they nearly take off into orbit. Why in the world is Potter defending you?

The last time you two had spoken had been over the summer, when Potter had shown up at the gates of Malfoy Manor, your wand clutched in his hand. He had given it back to you, and you had apologized. Potter had been struck dumb for a moment before asking what you were apologizing for. You had rolled your eyes and held back the urge to whap him upside the head. You told him you were apologizing for being a dick for six years, and then you thanked him for giving you your wand back. He smiled and nodded, and then held out a hand. You had stared at it for a long moment, flashing back to the day on the train when he had rejected your hand, but you had shook your head and grasped it anyway. You two had parted amicably.

"Why're you defending the ferret?" Weasley asks, and you bristle at the name. You'd rather not remember those horrible three minutes of your life that you had spent as a ferret, bouncing across the flagstones in the corridor. You wince at the memory, and rub your hand across your back.

"Ron, must you be such an arse?" Granger says, returning her chair back to its rightful state. He flushes.

"You too? What's wrong with the world today?"

"He hasn't done anything to us all year," says Harry, still trying to transfigure his book. "Just drop it, alright?" Ron mutters and jabs at his book, which promptly begins to smoke. You grin.

All throughout the classes you've had with the Gryffindors today, you've been stared at by Potter. You nearly blew up the potions room at least once, much to Slughorn's chagrin. You really weren't looking to give him another reason to hate you, but it's too late now. You're extremely grateful to make it out of the stuffy classroom alive at the end of the day, but a hand around the top of your arm stops you from turning the corner to the corridor that leads to the Slytherin dormitories. You turn to see Harry Potter, who is out of breath, looking like he must've run after you. Oh, the woes of having short legs.

"Can I help you?" you ask, quirking one perfect brow. Potter has leaned over, his hands on his knees, and he's trying to catch his breath. You can see the ripple of his muscles through his white Oxford shirt, and it's beginning to make you uncomfortable. "Potter, aren't you supposed to be in shape?"

"I am in shape, Malfoy," Potter says, finally standing up and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "You just move really fast."

Well, then.

"Again, can I help you?" you repeat, confused as to why Potter has finally approached you after practically stalking you all day. Your hands are clutched around the strap of your bag.

"I was wondering if you wanted to work on homework in the library," Harry asks, fidgeting. You're practically struck dumb, and you look around, waiting for someone to pop out of the stone walls shouting "Surprise!"

It doesn't happen.

"Alright, come off it," you say, watching him carefully with narrowed grey eyes. "What are you up to, Potter?" He actually looks hurt, and you grumble inside. It doesn't bother you. It doesn't.

It does.

"I'm not up to anything," he says. "I honestly wanted to know if you wanted to work on homework together." You eye him suspiciously for another minute before sighing in defeat. Potter looks like someone has kicked his Crup.

"Fine," you grumble, and Potter's face glows like a faerie light. "Lead the bloody way." He begins to walk, and you trail a few paces behind him. Several people stare as the two of you pass by, and you sneer at everyone as you go. Potter seems not to notice. He also seems to have left his Gryffindor cloak somewhere, for he is only wearing his black school trousers, white Oxford shirt, and gaudy Gryffindor tie. His trousers hug his backside nicely, and when you realize the thought that's just crossed your mind, you choke on your spit.

Potter turns to face you as you keep walking. "You alright there, Malfoy?" Your face flushes and you glare.

"I'm fine, Potter," you snap, embarrassed. Potter rolls his eyes and starts up the stairs.

'_I will not look at his arse, I will not look at his arse, I will not look at his arse_,' you chant internally as you follow him up the stairs. You chance a glance upwards, and you're greeted again by what is most likely the most perfect arse you've ever seen. '_Fuck_.'

The library is practically empty when the two of you enter, and Madame Pince glares at you. You both ignore her and her permanent frown and find a table near the potions section. You sit down across from Potter and pull out your potions book and some spare parchment. He's watching you again, and it's making you uncomfortable. You shrug off your Slytherin cloak and roll up your sleeves in an attempt to frighten him off. Instead, all he does is stare at the splotch that is the Dark Mark.

"Did it hurt?" he asks quietly, turning a quill over in his hands. You're taken aback by the question. You honestly were _not_ expecting the Savior of the Bloody Wizarding World to ask you if getting the Dark Mark _hurt_. You stare at him for a moment, wondering if he's serious. You see nothing but sincerity in those forest green eyes.

You title your potions essay as you answer and keep your eyes on the paper. "It hurt like a bitch."

Harry is silent for a moment. "I'm sorry," he finally says, and your hand spasms. Ink blots across your essay and you scowl. You have to cast a _Tergeo_ to get it off. You look up, and he's _still_ staring. It's beginning to get bloody annoying.

"What the bloody hell do you have to be sorry for?" you ask in an exasperated tone.

"You were forced into doing something you didn't want to do," he says and all you can do is blink in response.

"The past is the past, Potter," you mumble. You really don't want to talk about this, especially not with _him_. "Now, if I'm not mistaken, we have a foot-long essay on Veritaserum to do, and it won't complete itself."

* * *

For some insane reason, you meet up with Potter every day for the rest of the week to work on homework together. Blaise is convinced that you've gone 'round the twist. You honestly can't blame him because you don't know what's possessed you, either. You're beginning to suspect that Potter cursed you when you shook hands over the summer.

"Draco, _why_ are you hanging out with Gryffindors?" Blaise asks. He's sprawled across the couch you two are on, and his head is in your lap. You glare down at him.

"I am not hanging out with _Gryffindors_. I'm hanging out with Potter," you say huffily, crossing your arms. Blaise swats them so that he can see your face, and you flick his forehead.

"Yeah, and he's the _king_ of Gryffindor, idiot," he says. You roll your eyes. "Have you lost your mind?"

"That requires having something to lose in the first place," you say nonchalantly. You glance down at your watch, and realize that it's almost time for you to meet Potter in the library. You shove Blaise off your lap and he falls on the floor with a loud yelp.

"The fuck, Draco?" he grumbles, sitting up and rubbing his nose.

"I had to get your fat arse off of me somehow, didn't I?" you ask, grabbing your bag and putting it over your shoulder. Blaise's jaw drops.

"I am not fat!"

"Keep telling yourself that!" you shout as the wall to the common room closes behind you. Blaise is probably even more vain than you, which is a feat in and of itself, but it makes it easy to poke fun at him. You chuckle and shake your head as you jog up the stairs of the dungeon.

As you walk, you vaguely wonder what you'll notice about Potter today. Every time you've met up with him this week, you notice something new about the Boy Wonder. So far, you've noticed that when he's concentrating, he sticks his tongue out of the corner of his mouth, and when he spaces out, he taps the fingers of his right hand in a random pattern that he repeats after a few minutes. When flustered, he runs his hands through his hair, causing it to look more like a rats nest than usual, but you've found that you really don't mind anymore. He has a scar running along the middle finger of his left hand, as if it had been sliced open on glass or something of the like. He also has a scar along the back of his left hand, and it catches the light every now and then. You can tell it makes out words, but you can't discern what they say.

You reach the library just before Potter does, and you sit in your regular spot near the potions books, and you nearly choke once you realize that you've referred to the battered old table as your 'regular spot'. You sigh and rest your head against your hands and rub your temples. What've you gotten yourself into?

"Hey, are you okay?" You look up and see Harry sitting down next to you. He's got his bag on the table already, and most of the contents are spilling out. You spy a packet of sugar quills, mint flavor. You've got the urge to steal one.

"'M fine," you mumble, and rub the bridge of your nose. "I've a bit of a headache, that's all." It's not a _complete_ lie. You're beginning to get confused and there's a dull pain blossoming behind your left eye.

"Do you want to go see Madame Pomfrey?" Harry asks, concerned. You roll your eyes.

"Potter, I have a headache. I didn't lose my hand." Harry grumbles and fishes around in his satchel for a quill. You can hear him mumbling even with his head practically inside of his bag. You prod him in the shoulder with one of your quills, and he yelps. He withdraws from his tattered bag, rubbing the spot where you stabbed him. There's a splotch of green ink on his grey t-shirt.

"What was that for?" he asks, pouting. You stare at his plump bottom lip for far longer than necessary before holding out the peacock feather quill. He takes it from you, and your fingers brush. You nearly drop the quill, but thankfully, Harry's got a good grasp on it.

"You needed a quill, and since you're an unorganized twat, yours are probably all broken," you say, and your voice cracks slightly. You clear your throat. "You can use one of mine." Harry examines the writing utensil, and you watch him carefully. "Is something wrong with it?"

The left corner of his mouth quirks up slightly. "Its... er, very pretty," he says, and you bristle. Your quills are not _pretty_.

"It's not _pretty_, Potter!" you say vehemently, glaring daggers at him. His mouth quirks more. You notice that he has a dimple. Just one. "My quills are _handsome_."

"No, Draco, your quill is pretty," Harry argues, turning it over so that the plumage of the feather catches the light. "Hermione has one a lot like it." You gasp and stab him with the quill that's in your hand. He now has a black splotch to match his green one. "Oi, will you stop perforating my body?"

"I will when you stop telling me I have girly quills," you snap, holding your quill aloft as a weapon. This one is a raven feather, and it's bloody gorgeous. "I will stab you repeatedly if you keep putting my feathers down." Harry holds up his hands in surrender, and you glare at him one last time before pulling your half-finished Charms essay out of your bag and unrolling it.

Harry leans close and looks at what you've written, and you nearly go into shock. You can smell his shampoo, and it smells like rosemary and mint. He doesn't wear cologne. Immediately, you begin to salivate, and moments after that, you have the urge to bash your head against the table. What is _wrong_ with you? It's just the smell of someone's shampoo. A _boy's_ shampoo, nonetheless!

"You're almost done," he says, and puts his hand on the seat of your chair, right next to your thigh. Your entire body tenses up, and your mind goes blank. "I can't come up with a conclusion for mine." You open your mouth to say something, but nothing comes out, and you close it again. You've got the feeling that you look like a fish out of water.

_Son of a bitch_.

You hastily shove your essay back into your bag and grab the strap. You stand up quickly, with a muttered, "I have to go." Harry watches you, concern written clearly across his face.

"Draco?" he calls out as you hurry out of the library. "Draco!" Madame Pince shushes him for shouting in the library, but he doesn't seem to care. You move quicker than he does, for you have longer legs due to your height advantage, and you disappear before he can properly follow you.

By the time you get back to the Slytherin common room, you're out of breath. Running down four flights of stairs at top speed isn't your normal cup of tea. Blaise is the only one in the dorm when you enter and sling your bag on your bed, breathing hard. You lean against one of the poles of your four-poster bed and try to catch your breath. He watches you for a minute.

"What happened to you? You look like you've just seen a boggart." Blaise is sprawled out across his bed, shirt open, legs crossed, bare feet. He looks fit. You realize your thought and you nearly scream. _What is going on with you_? You growl in anger and head into the bathroom to splash cold water on your face. When you come back into the room, Blaise is sitting up on his bed, watching you carefully. He seems to be waiting to see if you'll explode. "Are you okay?"

"No, I'm not _okay_," you practically snarl, and flop on your bed face first.

"The good Lord helps he who helps himself," Blaise quotes, and you flip him the two-fingered salute. "Seriously, though, what's up with you?"

You roll onto your back and stare at the green canvas of your hangings. You cannot look at Blaise for this conversation, even if he _is_ your best friend. "Have you ever... have you ever had _thoughts_..."

"Why yes, Draco, I've had _thoughts_," Blaise says, and you lean over to hit him in the face with your pillow.

"Blaise, I'm trying to ask you something serious. Stop being a dick." Blaise sighs and lies back on his bed again, and you take it as a sign to continue. "Have you ever thought about boys... the way that you think about girls?" you ask quietly, and as soon as the question is out of your mouth, you begin to chew on your lip hard enough for it to bleed.

You shouldn't have to be asking Blaise this. You're _nineteen fucking years old_. You are _not_ having a gay crisis. You are not, you are not, you _are not_.

Oh, fuck it. Who are you kidding? Yes you are.

"Draco, are you asking me if I've ever fantasized about shagging a bloke?" Blaise asks bluntly, and you groan. You cover your face with your hands to hide the blush that you _know_ is covering your pale cheeks. Why, why, why does Blaise have to be your only friend?

"Yes," you mutter. You can practically hear Blaise grin, and you want to hex it right off his stupid face.

"Are you gay?" You sit up so fast that your vision has spots in front of it for a moment, and you get vertigo. Blaise is grinning at you.

"I am _not_ gay," you say. Blaise quirks an eyebrow.

"Draco, you are _so_ gay," he says, and you whine. He is supposed to be _helping_ you, not Blaising around.

"You are no help at all, Blaise!" you shout, and hit him with your pillow again. "Seriously, though. Have you?" You curl around your green pillow and look at your friend, who is sitting cross-legged on his bed across from you.

"Well, yeah," Blaise admits, scratching the back of his head. "Draco, have you never not realized that I'm bisexual?" You choke on your spit and Blaise laughs at you while you try to clear your airway.

"You're _what_?" you practically shout. "When did this happen? Why wasn't I informed? _What_?" Blaise is _bisexual_. What? Your friend of twelve years is _bisexual_ and you're only just now finding out. Where is your wand? You're itching to throw a hex.

"Bisexual," Blaise says slowly, as if explaining it to a slow child. "I like both men and women." You flap your hand at him.

"I know what it means!"

"Then why are you all wigged out?" he asks, arching a dark brow. You shoot him an exasperated look.

"I'm only just now finding out!" He laughs and shakes his head. You groan. "What am I going to do, Blaise?"

"Admit that you're queer as fuck?" he suggests, and you glare at him, silently hoping that he explodes.

"I'm not gay!" you say again, and Blaise snorts. "Why do you think I'm gay?"

"Draco, Pansy was all over you for years, and you never once took her up on the offer," he points out. You frown. That's not true. You took Pansy to the Yule Ball. You danced with Pansy, and you even kissed Pansy. Hell, you went to second fucking base with Pansy Parkinson. Any further than that, though... You shiver, and then you groan again. Well, shit.

"Okay, maybe I am gay," you mutter quietly into your pillow. This is all Harry Potter's fault. If he didn't wear those trousers, or those v-neck shirts, or use that shampoo, or smile, or... or... or _breathe_, you wouldn't be having this problem right now! It's Harry Potter's fault you've realized you're gay, dammit!

"Who brought on this revelation?" Blaise asks, shrugging off his shirt and tossing it across the room. You watch the muscles in his arm move for a moment before realizing he has asked you a question. He has gorgeous arms. Jesus. "Hey, gay boy, I asked you a question."

"What?" you mumble. He repeats the question and you frown. "Harry fucking Potter." Blaise stares at you for a moment, most likely watching you to see if you're bluffing. When you don't say "Gotcha!" he bursts into peals of laughter, and you begin to smack him with your pillow. Sometimes you _really_ hate Blaise.

* * *

Over the next few days, you manage to escape the clutches of the Boy-Who-Lived-and-Lived-and-Lived every time he tries to get close to you. Only once did he manage to get close enough for you to smell his lovely shampoo again, and you nearly set the Charms room on fire. On the third day of Potter Escape, you realize that he's still got your two best quills, for you had escaped from the library without them.

You're currently in the Slytherin common room, reading a book, when a fourth year taps on your shoulder. You set your book down and turn to stare at the petite girl. She looks absolutely terrified to have to talk to you, and you want to roll your eyes.

"There's someone outside," she says, her high voice shaking, "outside the common room for you." You raise your brows. You leave the shaking fourth year and open the door to the common room. When you step outside, you're greeted by a pair of forest green eyes, a rat's nest of black hair, and the smell of rosemary and mint.

You really should have seen this one coming.

"Malfoy," Harry says, opting to use your last name instead of your first. You think that for once he might be smarter than he looks. You two haven't seen each other in three days. Harry holds out his hand, and clutched in them are your two quills. You take them from him carefully. He hasn't broken them like the hooligan you know he is, and they're still perfect. "You forgot these when you fled the library."

"About that..." you mumble, stroking the feather of your raven quill. You trail off, and he looks at you expectantly.

"Yeah, I was wondering about that. What happened? Did I do something to upset you?" Upset you? More like send your everything into overdrive. You scratch the back of your neck.

"Can we go some place else? We don't really... allow other houses into our dormitory," you tell him. He nods, and you hold up your quills. "I'm just going to put these in my bag." You leave him standing outside and hurry back in through the opening in the wall after you mutter the password. Blaise is in the dorm room when you slide through the door.

"Who set your pants on fire?" he asks as you stow your quills in your bag.

"Harry Potter," you tell him, and hurry back out. You hear him call "What?" as you come back into the corridor where Harry is standing.

The two of you stare at each other for a moment. There is an extremely awkward silence in the air, and you can almost taste it. "Do you want to walk around the lake?" you ask, and he nods, grateful for a suggestion. You head up the stairs and out the front doors. It's nice outside, if a little balmy. September is almost over. You walk over to the old Elm tree that's planted next to the lake and fold yourself gracefully onto the grass. Harry plops down like a heathen and nearly takes out your eye in the process.

He apologizes, and there's another silence before he pops the dreaded question. "So, what was that whole thing about on Sunday?" You want a chasm to open up under the tree and eat you, but you know that kind of thing only happens to Harry Potter. You lean back against the tree and stretch out your legs. They're already beginning to cramp. You've spent way too much time in this position as of late.

"I was having a... crisis of sorts," you finally say. You pull a piece of grass out of the ground and begin to twist it.

"A crisis?" Harry asks, and he sounds worried. "Are you alright?" You snort. You're a nineteen-year-old acquitted Death Eater who's just realized he's gay. You're just fucking _peachy_.

"Not that kind of crisis," you snap. "No one died, no one blew up, and no one is in jail." He frowns, and you toss your shredded piece of grass on the ground and grab a new one.

"Oh. Well then what kind of crisis did you have?" asks Harry, and you smack your head against the tree. His eyes widen in surprise.

"A sexual identity crisis," you whisper, embarrassed.

"A what—oh—_oh_," he says. "Really? I thought you were gay." Your hands spasm and your grass flies. Even Potter thinks you're a shirt-lifter? Good Lord.

"Why does everyone think I'm gay?" you demand, crossing your arms across your chest and huffing angrily.

"Well, aren't you?" he questions.

"Well, yes, but I didn't know until Sunday!" You can feel Harry shaking next to you, and you realize that he's _laughing_. What an arse. You smack him in the arm, and he smacks you in the leg.

"Really?" You throw your hands up in the air and growl in frustration.

"Yes! Really. I had no clue that I liked men until three days ago!" Harry puts his hand on your arm and pushes it back down to your side. His touch practically burns, and you want to move as far away from him as possible, because this is extremely weird.

"Calm down," Harry says. His hand is still on your arm, and you're waiting for it to burn a hole in your shirt. "I didn't mean to upset you." You open your mouth to tell him that he did not upset you, but he holds up a hand. "Are you okay with this?"

"With what?" With his hand on your arm? You don't know.

"With being gay?" Oh. That.

"What choice do I have, really?" you ask, and he shrugs.

"You can do what I did, and attempt to be straight."

For a moment, you think you've heard him wrong. The next moment, you think you might get a nosebleed. And in the third moment, you've cuffed him 'round the head. He shouts and rubs the back of his scalp and glares at you. You glare right back. Is _everyone_ in this bloody place gay?

"What was that for?" he shouts. "That hurt!"

"Why didn't you tell me you were gay?" you shout back, flapping your arms again.

"It's not something that generally comes up while doing homework, you idiot," Harry says, and holds down your right arm. You've nearly knocked his glasses off this time. Your entire body is heating up just because he's touching your _arm_. There has got to be something fundamentally wrong with your brain.

"Don't call me an idiot," you mutter. He still hasn't released your arm.

"Well, you are one."

"I am not!"

"Yes, you are."

"No, I am not."

"Are."

"Not."

"Are."

"Not."

"Are."

"Potter, shut up!" you say, exasperated, and a moment later, you're taken by surprise for the second time today as a pair of chapped yet soft lips descend upon yours. You make a surprised sound in the back of your throat. Your eyes are still open, and you can see that Harry's are closed. He has incredibly long lashes. They almost brush the lens of his glasses.

You breathe in through your nose, and you're assaulted again by that _delicious_ rosemary and mint scent, and your eyelids flutter shut. Harry's still got a grip on your right arm, but you've got free reign of your left, and you put it on his thigh. Good Lord, this is better than kissing Pansy. Why didn't you start kissing boys years ago?

Harry pulls back, and you sit there, dazed for a moment. You blink slowly and lick your lips. They taste like mint sugar quills. "What was that for?" you ask quietly. Harry blushes and bites his lip, and you've got to fight the urge to reach out and pull it between your own teeth.

"I've wanted to do that for a while, that's all," he says, and your hands spasm again. A while? How long is a while?

"A 'few days' a while, or a 'few years' a while..." you trail off, picking at the grass again. Your brain isn't functioning right. This _has got_ to be some Weasley Product induced dream. It has to be.

"The last one," he says, and your eyes widen. A few _years_? Well, at least you aren't alone in your attraction. You grin wickedly, and Harry looks at you warily.

"Well, we have a lot of time to make up for then, don't we?" you say suggestively, and he chuckles before leaning in to kiss you again.


End file.
